


Breakfast in Bed

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cake abuse mention, Greg and Mycroft oversleep, M/M, No cake was harmed in the writing of this fic, They find something else to do though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15497517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Greg and Mycroft were supposed to hunt for valuable antiques, but they overslept.





	Breakfast in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I really really tried to get this up on Sunday, but I'm sure it'll keep for next week.

“We’ve overslept,” Greg whispers in Mycroft’s ear. They’re intertwined under the covers in the middle of the bed, they smell like 8 hours of sleep at least. Mycroft sits up straight away, almost elbowing Greg in the face in the process.

“What for?” he croaks. “What is happening?”

“We were going to go to the flea market early today,” Greg smiles up at Mycroft fondly. The light coming in through the windows lights up his grey hair making it look silver. It’s extra fluffy after lying close together all night.

“It’s not early anymore, there'll be nothing left,” Mycroft sighs, remembering. He lies back down. “Mr Sissing will have made sure of that.”

Greg tuts, shaking his head wearily, “horrible man.”

Mycroft wants to lie back down, but his bladder makes itself known. “Can I bring you anything from downstairs?”

Greg shakes his head no, nestles back into the covers, “just get back here, I want a bit more sleep.”

 

Of course his phone as he’s trying to use the bathroom in peace. Sherlock. Demanding that he be provided with cold cases and access to some kind of file and as Mycroft listens to the blathering happening on the other end of the line, he gets the paper and makes himself a mug of coffee. Waters the plants in the windowsill. Sherlock doesn’t pause to breathe until he’s made it all the way back upstairs. He listens for Greg’s breathing through the door. Still asleep.

“If you would just email my assistant about all these things, that’d be much faster,” Mycroft sighs, quietly in the corridor. Then he wishes his brother a nice weekend and don’t forget to tell Mummy you liked the presents she got Rosie before hanging up.

Mycroft settles back into bed with his coffee and his newspaper and Greg wakes up from the movement. Blinks at him blearily.

“Gimma sip,” he mumbles, pushing himself up to sitting and curling into Mycroft’s side. Mycroft hands the mug over and opens the newspaper, sniffs Gregs hair when he kisses it. He washed it before bed yesterday, with Mycroft’s nice shampoo. “What’s that one about?” Greg points at an article that says ‘Army on standby for no-deal Brexit emergency’. Mycroft snorts and starts reading the article out loud, providing snarky commentary here and there. When he looks up Greg is grinning at him over the almost empty mug, eyes sparkling.

“You’d think you had nothing to do with the whole situation.”

Mycroft huffs and adjusts his reading glasses. “Only the traffic parts of course.”

“Of course.”

They lean against each other and go through the paper together, Mycroft reading to Greg.

“You know,” Greg whispers in Mycroft’s ear in a tone that they both know spells trouble, right as he’s telling Greg about the financial implications of the dentists’ salary review. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Mycroft pretends to be annoyed and sends Greg a shocked look, “but the dentists, Greg.”

“Doubt they care about your clothes, darling,” Greg takes the newspaper and throws it on the floor carelessly. He starts on Mycroft’s silk pyjamas eagerly. When Mycroft is entirely naked, he takes over, undressing Greg, pushing him onto his back, covering his cock in lube, sliding down. Slowly. Gently. Greg trembles a little under him, and the pleasure on his face would be enough for Mycroft.

“You alright?” Greg asks, voice husky, trailing fingers up and down Mycroft’s thighs.

Mycroft nods, pushes down a little further. “Christ, Greg, touch me.”

Greg tickles his fingers up Mycroft’s thighs, touches his balls carefully, plays with his foreskin. Slides it back and forth.

“O – oh,” Mycroft lets his head falls back, his hips buck forward, as he is all the way seated. Greg’s hips buck back in sympathy, the hand that’s resting on Mycroft’s thigh clenches, almost painfully.

“Mycroft,” Greg whines, “I – you should...”

“What?” Mycroft tilts his head and opens one eye, then can’t help but laugh at the look on Greg’s face. “Too good is it?” he teases, moving his hips in a small circle.

“Ahgnn,” Greg scrambles with his feet at the covers. “I don’t want to – not yet.”

Mycroft thinks quickly, then puts his hands on Greg’s shoulders and lifts off, slow but steady. Pauses for a quick kiss. A bit of shuffling has him sitting between Greg’s legs, dribbling lube over his jumping cock, down his tight balls.

“How careful should I be?” Mycroft’s voice is gone too, as he rubs the skin behind Greg’s balls with two fingers.

“No need,” Greg swallows loudly, his eyes are shining as he looks down his body at Mycroft between his legs, he pulls his knees up further. “No need to be too – but slow. Slow please.”

Mycroft nods, kissing Greg’s knee where it’s bent, trailing wet fingers over his thighs. He rubs at the skin behind Greg’s balls a bit more, with his thumb this time, before sliding in the tip of his index finger. In and out, just the tip. Greg groans and moves, his stomach flutters, his eyes close. When Mycroft pushes his finger in further, Greg’s hips lift off of the bed.

“Pain?” Mycroft asks.

“No – not pain,” Greg manages, grabbing onto the sheets with clammy hands. “More.”

Mycroft takes his finger out and adds lube to his own cock, now deep red and aching. He holds himself close, letting Greg know what’s coming, then pushes in. He’s not so slow as he was before, but watches Greg’s face carefully. Keeps his breathing slow so Greg will match it. He always does. When he’s all the way seated, he lets out slow puffs of air as his thighs shake.

“Should come like this,” Greg says, looking comfortable and stunning. He’s still hard, but not as close to coming as before.

“You always say that,” Mycroft laughs, moving his hips slowly, then picking up the pace.

Greg laughs as he braces his hands against the headboard. “I get a little impatient, that’s all.”

Mycroft teases Greg by slowing down, moving deep and squeezing his leg a little.

“Fuck,” Greg hisses, “fuck, Mycroft.”

“Yes dear?” Mycroft tries to keep his voice normal and fails, he’s enjoying the heat, the pressure, far too much. His eyes hurt but he can’t look away from Greg’s face, his calves are going to cramp but he can’t stop moving in the way that makes Greg lean his head back, expose his throat.

“I – I want to... I want to flip you over and fuck you,” Greg groans, shifting his hips.

Mycroft’s stomach clenches at the thought, his thighs twitch, he wants that too. He slows his movements down even more, so he won’t even be tempted to come. Greg is great to be in, but he’s spectacular when he’s fucking Mycroft, hard and merciless, and... Mycroft shivers, has to stop moving to do so. Greg wastes no time in taking over. He sits up with a huff, and pushes Mycroft down onto the bed, sits between his legs, puts Mycroft’s feet against his shoulder. Pushes in in one long stroke.

“You feel so good,” he babbles, scratching Mycroft’s skin as he pants and thrusts, Mycroft is close enough that he keeps his hands on the sheets next to him, he stretches and flexes his feet against Greg’s shoulders. “My – you, you’re so warm,” Greg looks at him now, and Mycroft feels it heat his cheeks. So intimate, more intimate than the sex even, the lust and love that Greg manages to show Mycroft he’s feeling.

When Greg’s hips start stuttering a little, and Mycroft can’t _not_ touch himself anymore, he squeezes his cock firmly, letting the movements decide how fast he fucks his fist. It takes no time at all before Greg speeds up again, then even more, punishing, panting, and they’re both coming, aching, sweating, cramping. Greg falls down on top of him and stays there until Mycroft pushes him off, laughing tiredly. They have four minutes until they really have to go shower.

 

“What do we do now?” Greg asks as he lays back, still panting a little. “I doubt anything nice is left at the flea market.”

“Well,” Mycroft looks down at his beautiful Greg. “We have some cake left over from Rosamund’s party.”

“Cake for breakfast?” Greg’s lips twitch up, “on the balcony?”

“Fine,” Mycroft concedes, “but we’re not having a repeat of last time.”

Greg blinks at him innocently, “I’m not stupid enough to suggest licking your posh strawberry cake off of your cock.”

Mycroft laughs and pushes Greg away from him, he’s got cake to eat, after his shower.


End file.
